


Call Me Captain or Sir

by AngelAxexinf



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Kamino, teaser
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-12 04:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4465883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelAxexinf/pseuds/AngelAxexinf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He started as a clone, a soldier of the Grand Army of the Republic, led to believe the same dogma: that they have a duty, a higher calling, to serve the Republic and protect what it stands for, that they are perfect human machines: smart, merciless, expendable and easily replaced. CT-7567 grows through his cadet and eventual Command Clone training, becoming the Golden Boy of the 501st, Captain Rex. </p>
<p>-First chapter is a "teaser" of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

     Muffled, watery voices float in and out of the warm darkness that surrounds the child. There is a beep, loud enough that the child absently wonders what it is. The beeping continues, bubbles rising up and bursting against the edges of the darkness that holds it. Something like a sucking noise startles the child, and the warm darkness it was surrounded by falls away, replaced by cold and bright, white light.

 

     The first thing it notices is the change in temperature, texture. Cool air floods its lungs. It tastes dry, the complete opposite of its previous environment, so it inhales again through its nose.

 

     “Airways are clear."

 

     The child’s eyes snap open and are immediately met with a burning sensation. Something drips into its eyes and it tries to rub it away, but the burning turns into a stinging and worsens. He whimpers, startled by the pain and the voice that had come seemingly out of nowhere.

 

     “Step down.”

 

     The child, somehow, knows what those words mean, but they are not as smooth and muffled as what it had heard while still in the darkness. They feel fake and unwelcoming.

 

     Still blind, eyes still burning, it shifts its feet out until it feels a dip, a slope with enough traction that it doesn’t slip and fall down. Bracing its small hands on the solidity beneath it, it stands and flails around, searching for something to catch itself before its wobbly legs give out.

 

     “Take your time.”

 

     The child slows its descent and eventually comes upon flat, even ground. It is aware of a light passing in front of its face but can’t tell what it is. It shivers from something other than cold, something deeper and more primal. Being unable to see, unaware of its surroundings or what was talking to it causes an unpleasant feeling to settle in its stomach.

 

     Something speaks, different from what had been monotonously giving commands up until that point. Their voice is soft, smooth, and reminds the child of the fluid it had just been released from. “Open your eyes, child.”

 

     The child obeys and is blinded by a bright light. Squinting does nothing to stop the brightness, so it tries it’s best to block the light with small fingers. Something wavers behind the light, something long and slender. The child believes it is where the voice is coming from.

 

     “Can you speak?” the voice asks.

 

     The child, unused to so many sensations, jolts violently when a needle is pushed into the soft skin of it’s arm. Overwhelmed by the cold, the lights, and the pain, it begins to cry.

 

     “This will not do,” a deeper voice says, so unlike the fakeness of the first and smoothness of the second. This one is grating, frigid like the floor and not nearly as soft or gentle as the one that had called it “child”. The child imagines the owner must look the way the voice sounds.

 

     “He is just scared. Come here, young one.” A hand pushes against his back and guides him across the cold floor. He is still crying, although much softer this time. The warm tears roll down his cheeks, but he doesn’t know to wipe them away.

 

     With clearer eyes and the bright light gone, the child can look at his surroundings. He sees crystal clear pods in the large circular room, each either holding or releasing other children. They form rows that curve with the perimeter of the walls, each ring growing smaller and smaller.

 

     Bluish liquid drains from a pod nearby with a loud gargle that startles him. The recently released child stumbles and falls to the ground, immediately bursting into tears while an odd, mechanical thing with arms and legs rushes to help him up. He is just as naked and confused as the rest of the children, but only a few speak as they make their way around the gentle curve of the room.

 

     The owners of the voices peer down at him, one with a small rectangle in its hands. It has large, yellow eyes and a crest that makes it look taller than it really is. Its small head moves with grace when it turns to its companion, similar and size and shape. “Take these ones to the showers. I will finish up.”

 

     By the time the child makes it full circle with the tall, slender person, there are about 30 other children behind him, gathered in a small bunch but not quite touching. the wetness that had covered them when they first exited the pods was drying and becoming sticky. Experimentally, the child sticks his small hand to his chest and marveled at the resistance when he pulls it away. He does it again and again, across his arms and legs. Next to him, another child copies his actions.

 

     “You will be allowed to shower soon. We just have to take some measurements,” the tall person says. “Come here please.”

 

     The children obey, stepping through a set of doors into a clean, white room. There is a heavy smell of antiseptic clinging to the air. The child is lead to a small chair, still naked, and told to sit, which he does. Another one of the stiff, mechanical people with glowing eyes holds the child’s arm, pressing a needle to the skin and injecting a clear liquid. The child jumps and cries again, unable to hold back the tears. He is not the only one to wail, but he tries his best to not to whimper when he receives three more shots.

 

     Next, they are weighed and measured. An orange beam of light passes over each of them, slowly going down and then up. It beeps and flashes green when it’s finished. The children all wait while the mechanical person operating the scanner moves through the group, slowly scanning each child. Without warning, the light flashed red and gave a low beep.

 

     “Try again,” the person says.

 

     The mechanical person obeys, and the light flashes green. The child doesn’t know what would have happened if it had been red again, but he imagines it wouldn’t have been anything good. He’s glad his result came out green.

 

     “Come now, hurry,” the person says. The group is lead through another set of doors into a warm, steamy room. The child’s skin prickles with the sudden heat. “Rinse yourselves off and come to me when you are done. There are droids here if you need assistance.”

 

     The child eyes one of the “droids” as it hands out soap. He accepts the small bar and sponge but isn’t quite sure how to use them. He doesn’t say anything, however.

 

     Water streams from shower heads lining the walls. The child experimentally sticks his hand in the water and is delighted to feel it’s warmth and gentle pressure. He is the first to place his whole body under the shower and gasps at the shock of it. It feels nice and dissolves the stickiness that clings to his skin. The soap smells clean and he prefers it much more to the chemical scent of the previous room. He rubs the soap in his hair as best he can to get rid of the lingering stickiness.

 

     The other child, the one who had mimicked him when he was patting himself, stands under the shower to his left. His stubby fingers comb through his hair as the drains gurgle with the soapy runoff from his body.

 

     The first child watches and matches his movements, pulling on his dark, wavy hair. He rubs the injection sites on his arm and flinches when they protest.

 

     “You have two minutes,” the person says.

 

     The child is moving to rub down his legs when a tiny hand reaches out and grabs a fistful of his hair. It isn’t rough; he’s not forced to tilt his head to relieve any pain. The two children lock eyes and neither moves for a moment. Then, the boy feels the grip on his hair lessen a bit.

 

     “Soft…” the child says, almost barely audible above the showers’ steady noise. His golden brown eyes look in something akin to wonder at the other child’s hair. He gently strokes the other’s head, smoothing down a small section. “It’s soft.”

 

     “Time is up,” the person says. The showers automatically shut off without so much as a provocation. The children follow the person through yet another set of doors and into another warm room, this one dry with floors that aren’t wet or cold. The person beckons a child forward to a spot in the room.

 

     Two narrow columns stand on either side of a black square on the floor, and there are many others like it. When he stands on the black square, it sets off a blast of warm air that dries his skin. He yelps in surprise but doesn’t cry. Bending his head, he dries his hair in one of the blasts of air and moves on, accepting a small bundle of clothing from a waiting droid.

 

     “You will split up into three groups and dry yourselves off. When I come back, I want all of you dressed and lined up by the door.”

 

     The children don’t say anything but obey immediately, a few splitting off and stepping onto the trigger pads. The sound of multiple driers going off fills the room.

 

     There is no conversation.

 

     The child touches the spot on his head where the other had grabbed his hair. Soft. He knows what that means. Soft is his skin, or the person’s voice, and apparently soft is his black hair. He wonders what else is soft, and if he’ll be able to feel it.

 

     Soft, however, doesn't quite describe the clothing he is given. The shirt is long-sleeved and deep purple, made of a smooth material. It contrasts nicely against the whiteness of the room, and he appreciates the chromatic change in pace. The child pulls it over his head, admiring the way it looks on his body and the other children around him. Next is a pair of grey underwear and darker grey pants, and grey socks. He doesn’t like their colors and wishes they were also purple. He pulls on black boots that almost reach his knees, using assistance from a droid to help get them on properly. There are no mirrors, but the child can guess how he looks based on what the others are wearing.

 

     As ordered, they line up by the door and wait. The droids leave through a narrow side door.

 

     The hair puller stands behind the child. His hand grips the child’s and he squeezes back, not letting go even when the person walks into the room. On instinct, he stands up straighter.

 

     “Turn and face me,” the person says. “I will ask each of you a question, and I expect you to answer clearly. If you understand, say ‘yes ma’am’.”

 

     “Yes, ma’am,” the children say in unison. Now that they are facing forward, shoulder-to-shoulder, the child and the hair puller drop their hands.

 

     “Ma’am?” one child speaks up. He says the word like it’s a name. “Are you male or female?”

 

     “Do not speak out of turn,” Ma’am says. She blinks her large, yellow eyes, staring at each of the children in turn. “I am female, but speaking out of turn will not be tolerated here. Understood?”

 

     “Yes, Ma’am.”

 

     “You will soon learn that there are rules you have to follow,” she says. “You do not talk back to your superiors. You have a duty that is higher than most other beings’, and you will risk your lives to fulfill it.”

 

     “Yes, Ma’am,” they all say. The child isn’t quite sure what “duty” is, and he gets the feelings none of the other children are sure, either.

 

     “You are not civilians,” she continues. “You are clones; soldiers, stronger and far superior to any regular human both physically and mentally. You are faster and smarter, but you are not to forget that you have orders.” She pauses as if expecting a question, and she gets it.

 

     A child raises his hand. “What are our orders, Ma’am?”

 

     “To serve and fight for the Republic; it is why you all were created. You will be its backbone and protect its people.”

 

     Another hand, another question: “What is the Republic, Ma’am?”

 

    “The Republic is the government you are all fighting for. The Republic stands for justice, peace, and for democracy. Your duty is to give your life if you have to in order to fight for freedom. Failing to pass exams, to perform consistently at your peak, to fight and give your all for the Republic will result in termination. You cannot desert,” she says. The hardness in her faces makes it clear that there are no exceptions. “Do you understand?”

 

     “Yes, Ma’am!” The child feels a sort of jitteriness in his system. Their duty must have been important for Ma’am to put such emphasis on it. They couldn’t even leave, which meant that they were needed.

 

     Ma’am walks to the front of the line, her long legs swinging in languid fluidity. “Clone,” she says, towering above the first child. “What is your number?”

 

     He speaks without hesitation. “CT-eight-four-one-nine, Ma’am,” he responds promptly. Ma’am nods and moves on to the next child.

  

     “And you?”

 

     “CT-one-zero-one-zero, Ma’am,” he answers. When Ma’am nods, the little boy straightens with pride.

 

     She continues down the line, asking each child his number and nodding when he answers correctly.

 

     “CT-three-six-three-six, Ma’am.”

 

     “CT-eight-eight-two-six, Ma’am!”

 

     As Ma’am slowly makes her way down the line, the child begins to feel as if his insides are shaking. It isn’t quite a stomach ache, but the uncomfortable feeling is accompanied by his heart suddenly pumping faster and a prickly feeling in his armpits that prompts him to squirm. When Ma’am is three children away, he can identify what he’s feeling: fear.

 

     Ma’am had gone over the consequences of disobeying orders, of not performing to the standards or beyond, or failing at their duty--a word the child had yet to fully understand, but knew the importance of.

 

     The children were the best of the best and should act like it, she’d said. Insubordination would not be tolerated. Slacking off would not be tolerated. Weakness, fear, failure would not be tolerated.

 

     But what if the child failed to properly recite his number? Would he be forgiven, or would he be terminated, like Ma’am said? He does not fully know what “terminated” means, but something deep inside his tiny body knows it is unpleasant and likely painful, more so than the shots he received.

 

     Ma’am is in front of the hair puller now, peering down at him with her large, yellow eyes. “What is your number?”

 

     “CT-two-two-two-four, Ma’am,” he says.

 

     And then Ma’am is on front of him, giving him that same chilling look that clashes so fiercely with her soft voice. “And you? What is your number?”

 

     Can she see him shaking? Is that why she blinks at him the way she does and tilts her head? The child opens his mouth and for a very terrifying second, nothing comes out.

 

     When he speaks, it is not nearly as loud as 8826. “My number is CT-seven-five-six-seven, Ma’am.”

 

     Ma’am nods and moves on to the child next to him. Her voice melts away behind the frantic buzz of blood rushing in his ears. Strangely, he gets the cold feeling in his fingers again and his legs shake, but it’s as if it’s all being...released. 7567 feels a strange gladness that he recited his number without issue, that he wouldn’t be slated as deficient, at least not for now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7567's squad attempts to successfully complete a training simulation.

           The arena is set into the floor about three stories down, various walls of different sizes and shapes set in the rectangular space to serve as both cover and obstacles. The floor slopes towards one end, the highest part being near the entrance. Droids, silver-white and lifeless, stand like ghosts in the arena, heads hanging and blasters clutched in their cold hands.

           The children wait in anxious anticipation in the dark elevator, the small space lit by a single overhead light. In hushed tones, they go over their plan again, one more thought-out than their previous one, which ultimately lead to their failing the simulation.

           One child, 7567 isn’t sure who, bounces in place, fidgeting and rocking back and forth on his heels. 7567 wants to tell him to stop, that that was what had gotten 3328 pulled out of lessons and examined.

           It’s been two weeks since the group was decanted, two weeks since any of them last saw 3328.

           “We need to make sure we watch the right side of the simulation this time,” 8419 says. “That was what took out most of us.”

           There are small noises of confirmation scattered about the group, and the elevator falls silent again. 7567 is left to his thoughts, something he does not like. Adrenaline pumps through his tiny body, causing his hands to shake and grow damp. He looks down at the cool grey blaster he holds, too big for his hands and almost too heavy for someone his size to properly wield--but he knows how to take it apart. He knows how to hold it and aim and fire. He knows what real-life laser fire will do to the human skin, nerves, bones, how there were always sensitivity issues for months after.

           But he feels almost confident, holding the blaster in his little hands. He knows what he is doing, and although they failed the last simulation the day before, they were not terminated like they had all thought they’d be. They got a second chance, which means that they could mess up and still fight to their best. It is both a comforting and stressful thought. What would happen if they mess up too much? Is there a strike system they have to be mindful of? Too many mistakes would make him a poor soldier, a poor fighter and protector of the Republic. 7567 doesn’t want that.

           A Kaminoan female’s voice--he can tell the difference now--sounds from a speaker above them. Her voice is smooth and formal, much like the species itself. Her words cut off 8826’s sentence and 7567 realizes he hadn’t been paying attention. His stomach grows sick.

           “You all know the objective,” she says. “Your simulation will be completed successfully if you reach the flag at the end of the course. Do not break formation or you will be penalized.” And her voice clicks off.

           The elevator jerks and they move upward, past things 7567 can wonder about for only a second as he feels his muscles tense with each centimeter. A child readjusts the strap to his mini Z-6 rotary blaster in the corner of his eye. Signs of adrenaline display themselves in all the children’s bodies. The elevator stops.

           Light floods into the dark chamber and for a blinding second, nobody can see anything.

           The buzzer sounds with a startling blare and the children take off, each diving behind a cover. Blue-white lasers fly over their heads, leaving an acrid scent in the air as they pass. They aren’t powerful enough to kill, but the pain they bring is not something any of them wants to experience again.

           “On your left!” 7567 screams. He watches as 3636 doesn’t move quickly enough and is hit by a laser, his shoulder taking the brunt of the blast. He struggles to get back up. “Man down!” Another laser whizzes by his head and he returns fire, blasting a silver-white battle droid in the chest. It crumples into a heap of metal.

           “I’ve got him!” 1010 runs to cover 3636, who’s still on the ground. Through the group’s shared helmet comms, they can hear him crying.

           7567 can’t hold back his annoyance. Tears are unacceptable and 3636 knows that. They’d been told time and time again that they had no time to spare for emotions, that in order to become a true soldier of the Republic, they had to forsake emotions and focus on the mission.

           “I think it’s broken!” 1010 yells. “Someone help me cover him! I’m gonna try and fix it!” 1010 pays the most attention in health class and thinks he knows the most about a clone’s body. They’d learned to set some bones, but not all of them.

           “8826,” 7567 says before anyone else can take over, “Help 1010 cover 3636. The rest of us are going to go for the flag.” He fires at another droid, catching it’s shoulder and throwing it off balance.

           From 7567’s right, 2224 fires and hits the droids head, knocking it dead. They share a look and plow on.

           The group of children pushes forward, diving behind cover and warning each other of incoming laser fire from the practice droids. The three chosen to take point--7567, 6109, and 4050--try their best to clear a path to the raised platform that holds the flag. 6109 is just a few steps ahead of 7567. The pair dives under the cover of a low wall, waiting for the blue-white laser fire above them to stall.

           2224, in second position relative to the three children at point, is the “eyes and ears” of the group, and he does his job well. “Watch out!” he screams. Without warning, a Super Battle droid springs up next to 7567, its blaster arm raised and ready to fire. Before it can, however, 2224 fires several shots into its metal hull. Its circuits fry and the droid collapses, almost crushing 7567.

           7567 is grateful that he wasn’t shot but also miffed he let something so large get so close. “Thanks, 2224,” he says anyway, not one to let the others know how he feels.

           1010 had since found a relatively safe place for 3636 to rest near the back of the arena and slightly to the left. He’s also “eyes and ears” for the group but plays medic as well. Now that he isn’t watching the right side of arena while 2224 covers the left, the group as a whole is essentially blind in one eye. It severely hinders their progression.

           Droids from the right sweep in, being smart enough to see that they are in trouble. The laser fire on what would be 1010’s side of the arena increases. 7567 can feel his panic rise but does his best to force it down. Good soldiers don’t panic on the battlefield; they think through trouble and formulate a new plan to accomplish the mission. 7567’s face pinches in concentration. He jumps when a piercing cry rips through the connected commlink systems in their helmets. They all flinch, he can feel it.

           More tears. More wailing during a mission when soldiers are meant to be strong. 7567 can’t quite hold back his annoyed huff.

           “1784 is down!” 1010 yells. There’s no need to because they can all hear his voice over the speakers, but he does anyway. “I need cover while I go get him; I don’t think he can walk!”

           7567 sees a chance to take control and try to prevent this simulation from failing like the previous one. He plans to redeem himself for the mess that was the first simulation.

           4050 speaks up for the first time--literally. 7567 doesn’t remember ever hearing his voice. “6612, move from the back and take 1010’s place as visual scout,” he says calmly. 7567 knows it would be ludicrous to cut in. “9973, you move from the back too and cover 1010 while he gets 3636. The droids toward our rear are taken care of, so it’s safe for you two to move up now.”

            What he says makes sense. The group as a whole has made their way down the slope now and is either patiently waiting behind cover or returning fire with the droids. Compared to what 7567 had planned, 4050 was a genius. 7567 is embarrassed with what he wanted to suggest, which seems sloppy and infantile in the face of 4050’s simple solution.

            His embarrassment and irritation rise when both 6612 and 9973 respond with “Yes sir!”

           4050 blasts down a droid. “6612, what do you see?”

           “You’ve got a few--four--battle droids coming toward you,” he answers. “Sir, 7567 is much closer to that side than you are.”

           7567 takes the hint and leans out from the side of his covering, shooting the chests of the battle droids slowly ambling towards him. A laser skims his arm and leaves the whole thing tingling. 7567 fires again, getting a droid straight in the head.

           “I have an idea!” 6612 virtually screeches. His issues with volume control when he gets excited would soon leave the whole squad deaf. “4050, 7567, and 6109 should move as far right as possible, that way you can draw the droids fire towards you while 2224 goes for the flag.” Anyone can hear the proud smile in his voice. “There’s just enough room for you to slip by as long as 8826 covers 2224.”

           The children make noises of agreement and fall into the required order, 7567 and 4050 leading the way as they slowly move right. Just as planned, the droids and small turrets aim their fire towards the small group moving and away from 2224 and 8826.

           7567 watches as 2224 makes his way along the edge of the wall, 8826 keeping parallel to him but sticking to the cover. No droid sees them. 2224 is at the edge of the quasi pyramid, the series of one-meter levels he has to climb up to get the flag.

           8826 trips and yelps, drawing attention to himself. The turrets automatically hone in on his position, firing everything they have at the child. 8826 can’t stop his screams as he tries his best to dive behind cover.

           He isn’t fast enough. He’s hit in the leg and back.

           8826 twitches but doesn’t move.

           “2224, get the flag! I’m going to get 8826!” 1010 yells. 8826 is all the way at the front of the arena while 1010 is at the back. Abandoning 3636 and 1784, he starts sprinting as fast as his little legs with let him to 8826’s position.

           The droids have caught onto the children’s plan now and start firing at 2224. Up on the pyramid, he has no cover and had to drop his blaster in order to properly climb the levels, leaving 2224 completely exposed.

           “Keep trying to draw their fire this way!” 7567 yells, firing haphazardly at the droids to get them to pay attention to him. It only semi works as three battle droids and a turret turn towards him and start firing.

           2224 climbs up the last level, visibly fatigued but still standing. He grabs the flag’s pole and nothing less than rips it out of its holder. The buzzer signifying the end of the simulation goes off and the turrets shut down, the battle droids straightening and hanging their heads again, returning to the ghosts they were.

           A Kaminoan female’s voice speaks over the arena speakers. Each child removes his helmet to hear her properly. “Congratulations. Clone Unit 23-4071 has successfully completed training level 1-0. Please clear the training area while the maintenance droids clean up and medical personnel come collect your squad mates.”

           “Guys...8826 is really bad,” 1010 says, still hovering near the other child. “He says he can’t really feel his leg.”

           “Which one?” is not the only question that’s asked. Several of the children break off to rush to 8826’s and 1010’s side. They form a circle around their fallen squad mate.

           When 8826 speaks, it comes out as more of a mutter. “...my leg hurts…” he says. “And my back…”

           “Outta the way, kids. We got this.” An older clone, full-grown by the looks of it, gently touches 8826’s head. The bright red medic’s insignia on his shoulder contrasts against his armor. “What’s wrong, kid?”

           “My leg…” 8826 whimpers. He’s in an awkward position on the ground, half on his side with his neck at a painful-looking angle. His eyes well up with tears. “I-It hurts! And my back…”

           “What about your back, kid?” a second medic asks. He has 3636 in tow, his shoulder set and wrapped up. “Can you feel it?”

  
          “Yeah, but it feels weird,” 8826 says. Tears begin to roll down his cheeks.

           “Can you describe that weird feeling for me?” The medic’s voice remains calm the entire time, soothing in a way that sounded genuine, unlike when a Kaminoan tries to comfort one of the children. “Is it stinging? Tingling?”

           “It--It’s tingly,” 8826 confirms.

           The second medic carefully removes 8826’s boots. “Can you still feel your legs? Wiggle your toes for me, bud.”

           The other children watch in rapt silence, caught in a gut-turning mix of fascination and fear--fascination because none of them had seen an adult clone this close, and they all shared the same thought: what did their faces look like? Did they look at all like them? How old were they?

           And fear because a squadmate could be dying in front of them.

           His injuries could be serious enough to terminate him.

           The medic mutters an expletive, the first one anyone of them has heard. “I told them to stop the simulation--”

           “Now’s not the time--”

           “Their armor’s not strong enough to hold against fire from that range! Not from those kriffing turrets! Look!” He points at 8826’s back armor, at the twisted and cracked plastoid that was meant to be strong enough to protect him from the lasers. “And the other one’s got a split shoulder from those blasted things.” The medic turns to his wrist commlink, activating the speaker. “I need two gurneys down here, one’s critical and might need bacta. Bring a neck brace.”

           The other medic stands suddenly, drawing the attention of the rest of the children. “You guys gotta get out of here. Head back to your barracks or your next lesson, wherever you’re going.”

           The group obeys, too scared to say anything. They can still hear 8826’s moans and whimpers from meters away.

           “Is he going to be alright, Sir?” 2224 asks, looking wide-eyed and scared. “What’s going to happen to him?”

           “He’ll be fine, kid,” says the standing medic. 7567--all of them--knows he can’t guarantee that.

           7567 follows whoever’s leading the group to the elevator. No one says anything on the ride up, and it’s only when he looks down at his small hands that he realizes he left his blaster in the arena. He can’t seem to bring himself to care.

           Two weeks ago, they were decanted. In those two weeks, he learned he liked purple and what the Republic stood for. He had yet to learn what they were fighting against, but he learned new words and terms for everything he’d need in this portion of his life.

           In the span of those two weeks, they’d lost a squadmate and were probably going to lose another. The realization of what that means hits him hard.

           7567 can’t stop staring at his hands, small, child like. The Kaminoans say they’re two years old, ageing and developing faster than the average human, which is why they look four and talk like they’re four-year-olds instead of two-year-olds.

           Except 7567 doesn’t feel two, and he doesn’t feel four. He feels older, much older, incomprehensibly aged by what happened in the last thirty minutes that felt like thirty hours.

           His head aches. His bones ache. His nerves, blood vessels, muscles all feel frayed and spread apart for the world to see. He takes a breath and realizes he’s shaking from the inside out.

           “67…” a disembodied voice says. “Are you okay?” His voice is soft as if the slightest change in volume would shatter him--7567 thinks it would.

           He isn’t sure if he needs a medic, or even sure if he wants one. “I’m fine,” he lies.

           He is not fine, and doesn’t feel he ever will be.

 

 

 

 

 

          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any odd spacing errors or added punctuation! Ao3 won't let you upload from FFN and it doesn't register tabs, so I have to do all of the indents myself. If there's an error, don't be afraid to tell me.
> 
> Leave a critique/review or just tell us how you liked this chapter!
> 
> ~AAx


	3. Chapter 3

7567 examines his face in the mirror. His lips are covered in minty toothpaste suds that chill his skin.

"D'you think what the medics said is true?" 7567 has to look over to see that it's 1010 that had spoken. "That our armor's not strong enough?" Flecks of toothpaste dot the once-clean surface of the mirror in front of him.

7567 continues to brush his teeth, refusing to answer the question even for himself. Why would they be given weak armor? Was it to test them? Was it an accident? 7567 wishes he could consider the latter but knows it's the least likely.

"8826 was just slow," 2224 says, which surprises all of the children. "He should have ran faster."

"He was supposed to distract the turrets and droids!" 1010 protests, toothpaste foam flying. "You even agreed to the plan!"

7567 looks between the two worriedly, anxious that a fight would break out—but 2224 only scowls and returns to his morning duties. The bell rings, signifying the end of their time to brush and wash up.

"I hope he's okay…" 1010 mutters, leading the line out of the washrooms.

7567 follows after his squad, equally worried about 8826's health but too afraid to say anything. The group of children follows a small droid to the mess hall and waits in line to receive their breakfast. 7567 is so preoccupied with his thoughts, he forgets to choose what fruit he wants—the only non-battle-related decision he gets to make—and just accepts the cubed muja fruit the droid puts on his tray. The squad files into their assigned seats at the table.

"D'you think he's in bacta?" 8419 says, mouth still full of food. He's not in a hurry to eat, but 7567 doesn't blame him—the food is only mildly flavored and mostly colorless. The only part of every meal they had to look forward to is the fruit, and even that could be disappointing at times.

"Wouldn't he be out by now, then?" 6612 says. He's right—it's been three days since their last simulator, when 8826 was injured and taken away.

"He could be in physical therapy," 7567 offers up, pushing the bowl of muja cubes to the side of his tray.

"He'd still be here by now," 6612 answers. The group of children falls silent, chewing their tasteless breakfast.

3636 arrives to the table just then, his arm and shoulder in a sling. "They had to do a checkup," he explains. "I should be fine within a few days."

"When do you think our next live simulation will be?" 1010 asks, and just like that the subject changes.

7567, however, can't move on as easily as the rest of his group. 8826's condition gnaws on the back of his mind all through lessons that day. The one-hour lesson and immediate quiz all blur together—he barely remembers what he learned, which he knows is dangerous and unfit for a soldier preparing for duty. Forcing himself to focus on his work, 7567 plugs in the proper answers and waits a few seconds to see what his score is. Ninety-six out of one hundred—nowhere near as good as 7567 would have liked. He frowns, chastising himself for allowing himself to be distracted so easily. Distraction would make him a terrible soldier. He goes through the rest of the lessons and final test, forcing 8826 out of his mind.

The buzzer signifying the end of the lesson goes off, startling him mildly. 7567 stands with the rest of his group and files out of the seats.

The droid at the head of the line takes them down halls he doesn't recognize—he doesn't think anything of it though. He's not to question where they're going or what they're doing.

The small group of children—about twenty or so—end up in a room that is only vaguely familiar. There are other groups of cadets standing side-by-side in perfect formation, with only the occasional fidget here and there.

7567's eyes shift from left to right out of curiosity. Where are they? What is happening? He isn't worried—far from it—but the curiosity aimed at something that is very obviously a major event eats him alive.

A tall, slender Kaminoan walks in, the crest on his head identifying him as male. His eyes are a deep, liquidy black, a shade 7567 isn't used to seeing. The Kaminoan is flanked by two scientists, identifiable by their bright yellow eyes with barely perceptible white specks toward the center. The male wastes no time in formalities.

"You have all met the necessary requirements in this stage of your education," he says. He briefly consults the datapad in his hand before continuing. "Based on aptitude scores, agility levels, and overall ability, you will each be divided into new squads. You will remain with them for the rest of your training, unless it is absolutely necessary that you transfer squads."

A little jitter runs through 7567's nerves. He hopes desperately that he'll be placed with batch A2-21; they work well together and have the highest marks out of the all the cadets on their level—he knows because everyone talks about them. Their group even has a sort of walk they do whenever they pass squads or other children they know don't do well—and it infuriates 7567. He can either join their group and learn from them or drastically improve his learning. He knows which of the two is easiest.

"The droids will read of a list of numbers and you will stand in front of them when you hear yours called," the Kaminoan drones, now staring solely at his datapad. "Take care to move to the right place."

Several droids line up in front of the groups of children, and the first one rattles off a series of designations without pausing. 3636 and a few others quickly run to that droid and line up in front of it. Then the second one recites more designations and more children move to their correct positions.

7567's number isn't called until the fifth droid.

"CT-seven-five-six-seven," it drones in an oddly nasally voice. "CT-six-six-one-two, CT-one-zero-one-zero…"

7567 only barely manages to resist the urge to turn around and see who exactly is in his new squad. He recognizes 6612's and 1010's numbers, but nobody else's. When the droid is done reciting numbers, there are ten children in 7567's line.

The eighth droid calls a number, and 2224's is first. So, they wouldn't be near each other. It doesn't bother 7567—he wasn't that fond of 2224, not after what he said about 8826 being slow. He doesn't think he'll ever like him.

It's a few more minutes before every child is sorted and grouped. From what he can tell, none of the children from batch A2-21 are in his new squad. He's disappointed but obviously can't complain.

Once all of the children are organized, the Kaminoan speaks again. 7567 places him as a bored younger scientist or higher-up displeased with his job. The flippancy with which he dismisses everyone is a bit jarring. "Follow the droids and head to your bunks for your hour rest. You will proceed with lessons as normal afterwards."

And with that, the new squads file out of the room. 7567 wonders who's behind him as the squad makes its way to their new assigned bunks.

The large room they enter is new, smells different from what he is used to—like cleaner and some kind of laundry detergent. The capsules lined up in rows up and down the length of the room are a bit large. The clear glass is shiny and reflective. They're stacked like double-bunks and divided into sections. 7567 doesn't see any blankets or pillows readily available.

The droid stops in front of a section of the new bunks. "After your nap, you will head to your next lesson as usual," it says, it's voice soft and smooth. It turns without a word and leaves.

So they aren't assigned bunks. 7567 is about to assign them himself—he was at the front of the line, so that made him the leader—when two of the children walk ahead of him and one starts to climb the short ladder.

"Do you even know how to open it, 37?" the first one asks.

"I'm sure I can figure it out," he responds, poking a keypad. A drawer opens with a soft _hiss_ , and in it is a pillow and small blanket. He randomly jabs another button and is awarded with the clear plastoid hatch cover gently easing open. The child quickly kicks off his boots and hops inside.

Once the rest of the squad realizes how easy it is to get into the pods, they all scramble for their own places. There's a short fight for the top bunk before the issue is resolved and everyone is sealed up, save for 7567. He's the last one to get to a bunk and settle down.

But sleep doesn't come easily. For no discernible reason, his stomach is tied in knots. Is it fear? Nervousness? Did he eat something that disagreed with him? He can't tell, and he knows he won't be able to sleep until he figures it out.

Experimenting, 7567 goes over his day: shower, breakfast, lessons, squad assignment, nap. Afterwards, they would have more lessons, lunch, even _more_ lessons, dinner, and then go to bed. The next day would be a carbon copy of the previous one, unless there was the same fiasco that was their first simulation. Nothing stands out about his day—except for his new squad. Does being line leader make him the squad leader? And if it does, would he even be a good leader? Can the other children overthrow him?

7567 can't figure it out, and his brain is too exhausted to let him think anymore. After a few minutes of staring through the beveled interior of the capsule ceiling, he falls asleep.

**Several months later…**

The elevator ride up is shorter, but 7567 isn't sure why. Maybe it's because he already knows what to expect—or perhaps it's because he's just gotten better at zoning out for the minute-long ride.

A female Kaminoan's voice filters through the speakers set into the walls. Her tone is monotonous clipped, just like the last three Kaminoans who had read them their mission objectives.

"You have all already been debriefed." Despite this, she continues. "This is an escort mission simulation. Your squad is to safely escort a carrier droid to the other end of the coarse. Once you cross the line, the simulation will be terminated. Any damage that comes to the droid will count _against_ your team's overall score."

It sounds simple enough. 7567 doesn't expect much difficulty with this simulation.

The voice continues. "Are there any questions?"

One cadet, 21-389, raises his hand before realizing what he's done. There must be cameras installed in the elevator because the Kaminoan doesn't speak. Embarrassed, 21-389 rushes forward with his question. "Will we have to carry the droid?"

"The carrier droid is self-propelled on a set of wheels. It will follow whoever you tell it to," she supplies.

"How will we be graded on this?" 7567 asks, looking up at nothing in particular.

"Time, team efficiency, and damage sustained by the carrier droid will all factor into your overall score," she answers. "Remember to remain in formation." And the intercom clicks off.

The familiar jitter of adrenaline races up his spin and settles in his fingertips. 7567 takes a calming breath. He hears a clicking sound behind him. "'83, knock it off!" he hisses, not bothering to spare a glance behind him.

"It helps calm me down." And the clicking noise intensifies.

7567 squashes down his aggravation when the elevator gives a small lurch. The hum of the motors kicks in, and then the group is taken up—or down, he's not sure—a level to their training arena. The moment the doors open, 7567 knows that this will be different from their other training exercises. They're met by a small, open area that surrounded on all sides by walls. In the center of the white grid floor is a black stand with what looks like the carrier droid.

The team creeps out slowly. Their entrance into the arena doesn't trigger another set of instructions the way it normally is supposed to. 21-389 is the first to dart forward, scampering down the small ramp before being roughly yanked backwards by 7567.

"We don't know if it's a trap!" Is he the only one that's thinking this? The others stand just behind the pair, jittery with adrenaline they want to expend.

The intercom clicks. "It is not a trap." It shuts off again.

7567 feels stupid for even suggesting it was a trap—this doesn't stop him from racing down the ramp first, though. The rest of his squad follows behind him, and he feels like the leader again. They form a circle around the black box, examining the droid that rests on top. It's similar to an R2 unit, but much smaller and with two trapezoidal wheels instead of three. The hull is dark green with silver markings on it. The ID tag reads "A3-D4".

The droid doesn't move.

"A3, wake up!" CT-2134 says—Yappy, as the rest of the squad secretly called him because he's so talkative. Yappy waves a tiny hand in front of the droid's yellow eye-camera. "Wake up!"

"I don't think that's how you get it to work." CT-8415 circles the black podium. "Try looking for a button or something," he advises.

7567 is the first to start examining the most marked-up part of the droid, but his searches bear no fruit. Just when he's about to call on another plan, '89 cries out. "I found something!" he exclaims, and he lifts a small panel on the droids left side, pushing the first button. The machinery in the droid hums, and lights on its dark green hull flicker on. The thing vibrates, and without warning, its stocky dome of a head spins around and glares '89 straight in the eye.

" _Blrrp, blrp!_ " it chirps rather churlishly, like it as just been woken up from a nap.

"You're coming with us, buddy," '89 says. The droid seems to understand; it rolls off the stand and lands on the ground with a loud _clunk._ The thing isn't very graceful.

The team of cadets then faces the white wall separating the staging area from the rest of the arena. There's a break in the wall, just wide enough for them to slip through two-by-two and not touch shoulders.

What they're met with is another wall and two passageways, one branching to the left and the other right.

7567 doesn't have to tell anyone what to do; childlike curiosity gets the best of '89 and Yappy, and they rush down either passageway to look around the corner. They come back, confused.

"Mine just keeps going," he says bemusedly. "All there is are white walls."

"Mine turns eventually," '89 says. "But past that, I don't know."

7567 takes a moment to relish in the fact that both of them are turning to him as a leader. After internally gloating for a few more seconds, he speaks, "I say we investigate as far as we can, see whether one leads to a dead end. Then, we just turn back and go the other way."

The rest of the squad doesn't say anything, so he assumes that they all agree with him. "What we need to do is—"

"Hey, where's the droid?"

"'89, don't interrupt me—"

"No, _where is the droid?"_

7567 looks to his feet, as does the rest of the squad. The small green droid is nowhere to be seen. It hadn't left obvious tracks on the ground that they can follow. Yappy darts back into the first area but soon returns empty handed. "It's not in there," he says almost apologetically. Panic momentarily sets in; before 7567 can stop them, '89, Yappy, and 8415 rush down one corridor and disappear around a corner. Not wanting to let the group split up, 7567 and 8583 dash after them, following them as they make blind turns down new corners.

Every wall is the same monotonous white—or maybe it's light grey. There's nothing, no marking or otherwise, to separate one pathway from another. This doesn't stop '89, who's leading the group on their blind run.

"'89, stop!" 7567 yells. "Stop! You don't know where you're going."

'89 finally slows to a halt. He's huffing slightly, a look of bewilderment and mild panic settling on his face. "We have to find the droid!" he pants.

The group gathers in a huddle, completely silent, listening for some sign of the droid deep buzzes and trills. "Is it possible it went back? This is a maze, guys…" Yappy says, apprehension growing in his voice.

"H-How do we get back to the beginning?" '83 mumbles to no one, ever the frightened one.

The small squad of cadets immediately begins to huddle together, surrounded on all sides by the same white barriers with no physical breaks save for corners. 7567 takes '83's hand. "Follow me; we need to stay in a chain so we don't get lost. The ones at the end can help keep track of where we're going." He's terrified himself, of course-the child has absolutely no clue what he's doing-but the rest of the squad follows him anyway, linking hands til they're a chain of five small bodies, weaving and winding their way through the white maze.

They can all tell they're getting closer to something when they hear an increase in...noises. 7567 can't tell what they are til they nearly blindly turn a corner. Yappy is the first to make a sound, physically bouncing up and down.

"There it is!" he hisses, despite not actually seeing anything. "He's just around there!"

'89 has to tug his hand to hold him back. "Hold on, buddy. '67 has to look first."

And that's exactly what he does. Very careful, so as not to startle the activity happening just outside his vision, 7567 peers around the corner and sees their little, cantankerous droid-surrounded on all sides by droids.

**Author's Note:**

> This is more or less a “teaser” for a Captain Rex novel I’m writing with another person (from Tumblr). We want to see how it takes to the general crowd before we try to get any official Star Wars publishers to accept it. 
> 
> So, tell me how you like it! We’re currently accepting any and all critiques at the moment, considering how we want this to be perfect.
> 
> ~AAx


End file.
